The Passenger

by Francis Durbridge

  “Yes, right, sir.” With most of the wind taken out of his sails Bellinger made for the door, his face crestfallen.

  Martin moved round the desk to see what paper had so much attracted his interested. He had barely time to read the letter before Kennedy was back.

  “Colonel Reams is here, sir. He’d like a word with you.” “Reams? What’s it about, Harry?”

  “I don’t know. He just said he wanted to see you. I’ll talk to him if you like.”

  “No, I’ll see him. Show him in.” Martin rose to greet his visitor. Reams came in looking a good deal less sure of himself than in his office. His conciliatory manner was very different from the irate horseman who had threatened the photographers. “Come in, sir. Thank you, Harry.”

  “It’s good of you to see me, Inspector,” Reams said, as Kennedy went out.

  “Sit down, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Reams sat down, and raised his eyebrows at the dressing on the Inspector’s head. “Have you had an accident, Inspector?”

  “Sort of,” Martin said casually and sat himself on the corner of his desk. “What can I do for you?”

  “I thought you might like to know that I called in my local garage yesterday afternoon and the chap who owns it, a man called Aldrich, started talking about Tom. He was a friend of Tom’s, and Ruth Jensen’s, too.”

  “About what?”

  “Tom’s car. Tom said he intended to sell it to Ruth and Aldrich told him it was a pretty rotten trick.”

  “Why should he say that?”

  Reams had produced his gold case and was preparing to light a cigarette. “Because apparently, although the car looked all right, it was really a dreadful old banger.”

  “I see.” Martin picked up his desk lighter and snapped the flame on for Reams to light up. “In other words, you think that explains what Ruth was doing in the car?”

  “Well, yes.” Reams leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “And it also explains how the accident happened.”

  “You mean Tom was taking her for a trial run and showing off the car?”

  “Knowing Tom, I’d call it plain showing off.”

  “It sounds a likely explanation, I must admit.” Martin regarded Reams thoughtfully for a few seconds then stood up to indicate that he considered the interview over. “It was kind of you to put me in the picture, sir.”

  “Yes, well, I thought perhaps I’d better tell you about it.” Reams leaned forward in his chair but he did not actually stand up.

  “You did the right thing, sir. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me while you’re here?” Martin’s voice was still pleasant, but there was a hint of impatience in it.

  “No, I don’t think . . . What do you mean?”

  “I just wondered if there was anything else you wanted to talk about, sir?”

  “No. No, there’s nothing else.” The Colonel put his hands on his knees and got to his feet. He was about to shake Martin’s outstretched hand when he seemed to have second thoughts. “There’s just one thing . . .”

  “Go on, sir.”

  “That telephone call — the one that Ruth made — I think perhaps I know why she made it — why she wanted to talk to you.” Reams was looking at Martin, but the latter simply stood there, his face showing polite interest and waited for him to go on. “After the murder I made Ruth swear that she wouldn’t tell anyone that Tom had been friendly with Judy Clayton. I have a lot of very important clients and I didn’t want them to think that I was running the sort of establishment that . . .”

  “I get the point, sir.”

  “When you questioned her that morning I reminded Ruth of the promise she’d made. Unfortunately I must have frightened her into thinking that I was covering up for Tom and that — he’d actually committed the murder.”

  “I see.” Martin’s monosyllabic replies had given Reams little help. He drew on his cigarette and straightened his shoulders in the well-cut tweed jacket.

  “I’m sorry, I suppose I should have told you all this before, Inspector.”

  “It might have been a little more helpful, sir.”

  Reams was wondering what to say next when Kennedy knocked and put his head round the door.

  “Excuse me. Sue wants to see you.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Yes, I think so. I think she’s spotted him.”

  Reams had listened to the brief exchange with unconcealed curiosity. Martin put an arm out to shepherd him towards the door.

  “Thank you, Colonel. We’ll be in touch.”

  Sue was in Kennedy’s office, two doors along the corridor. She had been going systematically through the pile of photographs which Martin had brought up from the records office. As her husband came in she and Tomkins were staring at one of the standard photographic records which the police keep of all arrested criminals — one full-face and the other profile.

  Sue glanced round and, as Martin came in, held up the photograph for him to see.

  “What do you think, Martin?”

  He took it and at once recognised the face which had been stamped on his memory in the split second before the butt of the revolver hit him.

  “Yes, that’s him. That’s him all right. Thank you, Sue.” “His name’s Pike, sir,” Tomkins supplied. “Gordon Pike.” Martin asked Kennedy: “Do you know him?”

  “I do. He’s a vicious little devil. He was accused of attacking and robbing an old lady in Surbiton, about six months ago. But we couldn’t make it stick. He was acquitted.”

  “Pick him up, Harry!” Martin threw the photograph onto the desk. “We’ll make this one stick!”

  Sue still had not appeared when Martin arrived at the Mandarin Restaurant for a rather late lunch. He only had to wait a moment before being shown to a table which had just been vacated by two businessmen. For once breaking his rule, he ordered a glass of sherry and sat back, thankful to have a few minutes to order his thoughts. She came in ten minutes later, slightly flushed and breathless.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” She took off her coat and silk scarf and let the waiter take them away.

  “That’s all right, I’ve just arrived.” Martin had stood up to welcome her. “Would you like a drink?”

  Sue sat down and hesitated while she tried to make up her mind. Martin made the decision for her.

  “A dry sherry,” he told the waiter firmly.

  Sue smiled across the table as he sat down, pushing back a strand of hair which had fallen over her brow.

  “It’s been one of those mornings. The ‘phone never stopped ringing. Incidentally, did you telephone the office? Someone said something about a call from . . .”

  “Yes, I did. I had a word with Mr. Eastwood.”

  “Mr. Eastwood?” she repeated, obviously surprised.

  “I wanted to see him.” Martin’s manner was uncharacteristically vague. “But I’ve changed my mind, I’m not going to see him after all.” He picked up the menu and handed it to her. “What would you like to eat, Sue?”

  “Let’s have the drink first. We’ll order later.”

  “All right,” he agreed.

  “How’s the face?” She was looking at the dressing on his head with critical eyes. “It doesn’t look too bad.”

  “Still a bit painful,” Martin said, touching the place carefully with his fingers. “But improving.”

  “Did you pick up — er — Pike?”

  “No. That’s a sore point. We nearly did, then at the last moment he gave us the slip. We’ll catch him in the end, don’t worry.”

  He leaned back as the waiter appeared with Sue’s glass of sherry. As she thanked the little Chinese, Martin raised his glass. “Skol!”

  She reciprocated the gesture.

  “What is it that you want to talk about?”

  “I’d like you to do something for me. You don’t have to, of course, if you don’t want to.”

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  He unobtrusively glanced over each shoul
der to make sure none of the other customers were close enough to listen, then leaned forward.

  “You remember what I told you the other night, about Judy Clayton?”

  “You said you knew who killed her.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well?”

  “Since I spoke to you I’ve had proof, more positive proof, that I’m right. But I still don’t think it’s enough for me to go ahead and make an arrest. I’ve got to frighten him into making just one more mistake.”

  “But you still haven’t told me what you want . . .”

  “I’ve got an idea — a plan. I admit it’s crazy, as crazy as hell, but if you’re willing to help me, I think it’ll work.”

  Sue glanced down at his hand which had slid across the table to grip her forearm. She hesitated, then gave in to the earnest expression on his face.

  “I’ll help you. On one condition.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “You’ve got to take Harry Kennedy, or someone at any rate, into your confidence. You’ve got to tell them who you suspect and why.”

  “I’ve already done that. I spoke to Harry this morning and I’ve sent a report through to Rupert Mailer.”

  He could see that she was dubious. He slightly increased the pressure of his fingers. “Honestly, Sue.”

  “All right. Now what is it you want me to do?”

  “I’ve arranged to have a drink with Arthur Eastwood this evening. I said we’d meet at The Grapevine, it’s on his way home.”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t want to keep the appointment.”

  “Very well, I’ll deal with it,” she said briskly. “That’s no problem. I’ll simply tell him you’re . . .”

  “I don’t want you to tell him anything, Sue. I want to keep the appointment, instead . . .”

  During the busy evening period Andy Mason made it a habit to help Mike and George, the two barmen, deal with the crush of customers who habitually flooded into The Grapevine. It also gave him a chance to listen to the local gossip, have a chat with some of his regulars and quietly imbibe a few gins and French on his own account.

  Arthur Eastwood, whose visits were few and far between, had come in at about seven and Andy had served him personally and then stayed to chat. The conversation had soon turned to the machinations of the motor trade. Andy was bitterly complaining about the way the Ford dealer had talked him into buying an automatic.

  “You’ll like it once you’ve got used to it, Andy.” Arthur Eastwood was perched on one of the stools in front of the bar, his fingers round the glass of whisky.

  “I hope you’re right, but I’ve had it a month now and I’m still not happy with it. I wish to heavens I’d stuck to the old gear-lever.”

  While he talked Andy was keeping an eye on things, making sure that Mike and George weren’t keeping any of the customers waiting. Olive was dealing with the cold snacks counter. She had gone into Andy’s office on hearing the telephone bell ring.

  “You’re just an old-fashioned square, Andy.”

  “I find it so damned awkward not using my left foot all the time.”

  “You’ll get used to it . . .” Arthur broke off and glanced yet again at the door. Andy could see that he was waiting for someone.

  “Yes, well, if I don’t, I’ll flog the damn thing!”

  Olive had come out from the door which led to the office and was standing at Andy’s elbow.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Mason. You’re wanted on the telephone.” “Oh. Thank you.” He gave Arthur a friendly nod. “See you later.”

  As Andy went into his office Olive placed her folded arms on the counter and gave Arthur her big smile.

  “Good evening, Mr. Eastwood.”

  “Hello, Olive,” Arthur responded, trying not to let his eyes be drawn to Olive’s generous bosom.

  Andy was expecting a call from Evelyn, but when he picked up the ’phone he heard a high-pitched man’s voice.

  “That you, Andy? It’s me, Gordon. I’m going to need some more cash. The rozzers are on my tail. They nearly nabbed me when I went back to the caravan park. If I hadn’t had the scooter I’d never have got away.”

  Andy put a hand over his free ear. He had left the loudspeaker switched on and the sound of Olive’s and Arthur’s voices was as loud as Pike’s squeaky voice on the ‘phone.

  “You’ve had your money, Gordon. We agreed on a price and I’ve paid it. If you’ve been stupid enough to leave tracks that’s your own look out.”

  “Don’t give me that! Listen, either you fork out another five hundred or I talk.”

  “Five? You’ve got to be joking. I might be able to let you have another hundred.”

  “That’s no use to me! I said five and I want it straight away.” “You don’t seem to realise that the banks are closed —”

  “I told you I want it straight away.” Pike’s voice faded for a moment, as if he was looking round. “I know you keep plenty of ready cash in that safe of yours.”

  “Hold on a second.” Andy held the receiver away. He had heard something on the loudspeaker connected to the bar which had attracted his attention. When he put the instrument to his mouth he spoke softly but urgently.

  “All right, Gordon. I’ll fix you up. Meet me in the car park at the back of here in an hour. You know my car. It’s a blue Ford Capri. I’ll see you.”

  He hung up immediately, but instead of going through to the bar he stood by the desk, listening.

  “Good evening, Mr. Eastwood!”

  Arthur swung round on his stool, his face showing his surprise at hearing the familiar voice.

  “Why, hello, Sue! I didn’t expect to see you here! I’m meeting your husband . . .”

  Olive tactfully faded away, moving further along the bar to collect some empty glasses.

  “Yes, I know you are, but I’m afraid Martin can’t make it, Mr. Eastwood. He’s been trying to get hold of you. As a last resort he telephoned me.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I’m sorry about this, Sue. I hope it hasn’t messed up your evening?”

  “No, no, I was coming in this direction anyway.”

  “Er — would you like a drink?”

  “Could I have a gin and tonic?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Sue hitched herself up onto the stool beside Arthur, which had just been vacated. She undid the tie-belt of her coat and let it fall open. In answer to Arthur’s signal Olive had returned. She regarded Sue with the quizzical expression of an experienced woman who knows perfectly well why attractive young women come into bars alone.

  “A gin and tonic, Olive,” Arthur told her, his voice sharpening a little as he saw her expression.

  “And ice?”

  “Please.”

  Olive nodded and moved away to mix the drink.

  “As a matter of fact,” Arthur said, “I was a little surprised when your husband suggested that we meet here. I asked him to come to the office but he didn’t seem to want to do that.”

  “No, I rather gather he wanted to talk to you privately about something.”

  “I would have thought my office would have been a great deal more private than a public bar.”

  “So would I!” Sue agreed, laughing. “So would most people. But not Martin!”

  “I gather he is a pretty off-beat sort of chap when you get to know him.”

  “I don’t know that I’d call him off-beat, exactly.” Sue was looking straight ahead, but she could see Arthur’s face in the mirror against the wall. “Incidentally, we’ve made it up. I’m — going back to him.”

  “Are you?” Arthur swung round, genuinely delighted. “Well — er — congratulations. I suppose that’s the right thing to say, under the circumstances?”

  “I hope so,” Sue said, and could not help laughing at his suddenly worried frown.

  “I’m very glad, Sue. I am, really, my dear. But I hope this doesn’t mean you’re going to leave us?”

  “No, it doesn’t. Not for
the moment at any rate.”

  Olive placed a glass with a measure of gin and some ice in it in front of Sue and poured half the bottle of tonic into it. Arthur put down a pound note and received a stack of coins for change.

  “You’ve no idea what Martin wanted to see me about, I suppose?”

  “No — except that I imagine it was something to do with the Judy Clayton affair.”

  “I have a feeling your husband and I think alike about that — in fact I’m sure we do.”

  “Martin’s convinced that the man who murdered Judy Clayton also killed Mr. Walker,” Sue said, raising her voice above a sudden burst of laughter from a group of young people at a corner table.

  “So am I.”

  “He’s also convinced that it won’t be long now before they make an arrest.”

  “Is he? Well, that’s certainly good news,” Arthur said enthusiastically. “I sincerely hope he’s right.”

  “So do I, but I’m afraid Martin’s always optimistic.”

  “Yes, but surely, there must be grounds for his optimism?” Sue waited till a couple of new arrivals had ordered their drinks.

  “I think it’s something to do with a photograph and Judy Clayton’s lipstick.”

  “A photograph?”

  “Yes. I don’t really understand it.” Sue shook her head vaguely. “According to what I’ve heard, someone took a photograph and the police showed it to a chemist, and apparently the chemist . . .”

  “A photograph of what?”

  “Of a man, a suspect, presumably.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “Well, that’s it. That’s all I know.”

  “But you were going to say something about the chemist?” “Only that he apparently identified the man.”

  Arthur swallowed most of the whisky in his glass and savoured the after-taste thoughtfully.

  “You’ve no idea who he is, I suppose?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t.” Sue’s eyes flicked up to the mirror opposite her. “Martin didn’t tell me. But then naturally, he wouldn’t.”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  Arthur realised then that Sue was staring into the mirror with a slightly disconcerted expression. He turned round sharply to find Roy Norton standing at his shoulder.